


I'll Come Running

by Meduseld



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Beginnings, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 07:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: A mission goes wrong.





	I'll Come Running

Napoleon’s shoulder is on fire.

Not literally, that was Naples, but he can feel flames inside the flesh, the join of bone and sinew smoldering. His mouth is full of leather, face jammed awkwardly against the backseat as Gaby gets the Benz they stole to fly.

He can’t remember the sequence exactly, just the beginning of it on Turing’s face and then the corridor and his shoulder, _God_ his _shoulder_ , and Illya’s big arm lifting him from the middle and the wind hissing through the car windows, smelling of pine so they’re headed out of the city instead of inward. That’s not a good sign. Mission’s a wash then. Waverly won’t be pleased.

“Who cares?” Gaby growls, and Napoleon must be speaking aloud.

Passing out seems to be the decent thing to do.

He floats back in later, the vague memory of limping out of the car leaning against Illya somewhere near his temples.

It’s the nature of the work really, you fight as hard as you can against being dead weight, even if it means bleeding on your teammates.

Awareness comes suddenly and totally and that’s the job too. He takes inventory: two bruised ribs, deep cut in his shoulder from a letter opener (note: watch for infection), general aches and pains.

He’ll live then. That’s good.

He can hear Gaby and Illya through the thin grey walls, a safe house they’d scouted as a precaution.

They must hear him too, the subtle change in his breathing.

This job.

The door creaks open and he waves, as jauntily as he can manage. In his bad arm, it feels like someone is slowly pulling barbed wire through the wound.

Illya steps into the room as Gaby moves back to the kitchen, graceful as ballet dancers.

The thought, _well they both really are_ , floats on the surface of his mind.

It’s an old dance. She might be a bad cook, but her hands shake when she works with blood instead of motor oil.

The bed dips, and Napoleon feels more than hears Illya mumble “lie back” and he does.

Those big hands are calloused but whisper light, checking the bandages and the wounds beneath.

He feels still, calmer than he should be, self-preservation somewhere he can’t quite reach.

He’s bleeding, off the grid, under the regard of an enemy agent and he feels _safe._

In the lines of Illya’s face he can see that he looks terrible.

“I’ve had worse Peril, take off your funeral face”.

His lips pull down in a thunderous frown because of course, he can’t ever just _do_ what Napoleon _says._

“It does not have to be worse. It was foolish, all on its own”.

It was but isn’t that always the way? Napoleon sighs, hisses, _oh_ bruised ribs. He feels like rolling over and licking his wounds.

Illya’s gaze is too heavy a weight and he stays where he is, lets him look. Watches the words try to make their way up Illya’s throat.

“You…It should be better than this” Illya says and Napoleon can’t follow him back, link the words with what he means.

He’s in pain and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here.

“I’m alive. What else can people like us hope for?” he tries to smile and Illya tries to smile and it hurts worse than his body does.

Illya stops smiling.

Then he ducks his head, so very, very careful for so very, very big a man and rests his forehead on Napoleon’s.

_Oh._

So there’s this, too.


End file.
